Pine
by Tiny-Scientist
Summary: Clint Barton has been in a tree for 14 hours. Then Phil Coulson turns up. In which Clint had plans, the universe had other plans, people's pasts come back to bite them, terrorists are assholes, people nearly die and Loki makes a surprise visit. Oh, and pine trees.
1. Tree

Clint was _not _enjoying this mission. This was a problem, because when Clint didn't like the mission, he tended to do things to upset his handlers. This time around, his handler was Agent White, and Clint detested the man with a passion. And so, he started doing things. He chattered incessantly, keeping up a running commentary of what he could see, his situation and really anything else he could think of.

"Really, who thought putting a sniper up here was a good idea." He grumbled into the open comms line, "I mean, there are pine-needles _everywhere_, I smell like its freaking Christmas, and the thing _moves_, like, how am I meant to take the shot when this is pitching like a ship in a storm." Clint whined. He could make the shot. Easily. He's taken shots on boats before, too, but White was a new handler Clint knew the other Agent hadn't read his file.

None of them ever read his file. Not that Clint had many other handlers that Coulson now, because he was utterly intolerable with anyone else. Most times, Director Fury got sick of Agents taking psych leave after working with Barton, and had dumped him onto Coulson.

Clint was bored, put simply. Yes, this was an important mission for S.H.I.E.L.D, but he'd been up this tree for nearly ten hours, with no food other than protein bars that tasted like cardboard, caffeine pills which he'd slipped into a pocket at the last moment – and Coulson would have a fit if he found out, but it was worth is to stay awake – and some water. That and his bow, of course.

The wind, which had been lashing the tree for the last nine and a half out of the ten hours he'd been there suddenly intensified, and there was a distant rumble of thunder.

"Great." Clint muttered, this time more to himself than to annoy White. He abruptly decided that White hadn't listened to nearly enough showtunes, and began singing _Anything Goes _through the open line. Over his own singing he was just able to detect the sound of Agent White letting out a faint, defeated groan. Awesome.

Rain started to fall, drenching Clint almost immediately. Grumbling to himself, Clint re-checked his harness that bound him to the tree. Now would not be a good time to slip and fall. By now he was cold, soaked, hungry and all in all not a happy sniper.

All he really wanted was to make the damn shot, and get out of the tree, back on the ground and into a hot shower then bed. Preferably with – well he wasn't going think about someone he couldn't have because of stupid S.H.I.E.L.D. regulations, because that was just going to depress him further, and he needed to stay sharp on this one.

The wind howled louder, and a barrage of icy rain stung his face. Clint reached up with one hand to wipe the droplets away before they ran down under his collar, but only succeed in smearing water across his protective glasses. Cold, soaked and at this point thoroughly miserable, Clint hunched deeper underneath the branches and shivered, constantly on the watch for his target.

He'd been up the stupid tree for a further four hours before he sighted the target. He was a small, untidy man, with unruly dark hair, wearing a labcoat and glasses. For a brief second, Clint was reminded of Dr Banner, and his aim wavered. But his pulled his focus back to target.

"I have the target in my sights." He reported, his voice a little rough, because in the end, he'd stop talking and singing for the three hours, "Permission to b fire?"

"Granted, Agent Barton." The voice wasn't Agent White's. It was a voice that was more familiar, and Clint pretended that his heart didn't start to race a little when he heard it.

"Thank-you, Sir." He said, grinning just a little bit stupidly, and he could imagine the look Coulson has on his face, a mix of exasperation and something Clint didn't have a name for. Not that anyone else could pick it, except maybe Natasha of Director Fury. No-one else knew Coulson well enough to understand the myriad of emotions he was capable to displaying while still looking perfectly emotionless.

Clint took a deep breath and held it as he drew back the bowstring until it brushed against the corner of his mouth. He took a moment to calculate the shot to account for the movement of the tree, adjusting his aim ever so slightly. Clint fired, releasing his breath and the arrow in a single moment.

With a vicious kind of satisfaction, Clint watched he arrow find its mark, and watched the man fall. He turned away and triggered the explosive in the arrow he'd fired, erasing evidence that he'd ever been there at all.

Clint sailed downwards on his rappel line, to tired and shaky to trust himself to climb down in the rain with this wind still blowing. His feet hit the ground and for the first time in fourteen hours he was standing on stable, solid ground. He only stood for a moment though, before his legs practically collapsed under him, and he went down in a tangled and undignified heap.

But an arm wrapped around his shoulders, tugging him up to his feet, and he leant heavily on a familiar shoulder.

"No falling down on the job, Agent Barton." Coulson told him. He was holding an umbrella in the other hand, keeping the rain off, even though he had a soaking wet field agent leaning against his side.

"Guys dead," Clint mumbled, "I'm off the clock."

Coulson led Clint away from the tree and back towards where his car was parked, a short way back down the hill. Clint noted somewhere in his brain that it was Coulson's personal car, not a S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicle, and he wondered where Coulson had been before coming to find him.

"I was at home, actually." Coulson replied, and Clint realized that he'd said that out loud, "But you were giving White hell over the comms and honestly? You were only meant to be up that tree for two, three hours max, and after about eight I figured things were getting excessive."

"Aw, Sir," Clint teases, "You come to rescue me?"

Coulson bopped him lightly on the back of the head, but it didn't hurt and had no malice behind it. "I came to save Agent White from you." He replied, and there's almost a smile there, "I know what you're like on long ops."

Clint rolled his eyes, "This wasn't long."

"It was longer than it was meant to be." Coulson replied, and Clint could hear a note of steel in his voice, the thinly veiled anger that Clint didn't understand, and couldn't see a cause for. Ops go longer than planned all the time. He didn't have enough fingers to count the time that the briefing has said three days and a week later he'd still been in the middle of things. It's not unusual. So why the hell was Coulson so annoyed?

They've reached the car, and Coulson opened the back door for Clint, who basically sprawls in, lying across the back seats, which have been covered by a couple of towels. There's also a blanket folded up on one seat, which Clint was surprised by, but he was so tired that he didn't care enough to question it. Coulson shut the door behind him, and got into the driver's seat, starting the car and turning to go back down the hill.

"Where are we going, Sir?" Clint asked, sitting up. He had taken off his quiver and shooting gloves and shrugged out of his soaked jacket. His hair was dripping water, but he was rubbing it dry with one of the towels.

"Home." Coulson said, "Base is on lockdown. Biohazard leak in one of the labs. You can stay at my place. If that's alright."

The last part was delivered more like a question, and Clint nodded approvingly, "Sure." He said, "I'm cool with the couch."

Coulson practically rolled his eyes, "I have a spare room." He replied, as if this should have been obvious. "It's a long drive, get comfy."

"I plan to." Clint replied, smothering yawn and went back to getting dry. Once he had mostly towelled off, Clint kicked off his boots and lay down across the back seats, ignoring Coulson's mutterings about seatbelts in favour of closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.


	2. Wash Away

**Hey look, another chapter. What is this?**

**Also, I updated the first chapter, changing a few things around. It's not much, basically giving Clint a better reason to be at Coulson's place, and fixing a few typos.**

* * *

Clint woke a few hours later as Coulson pulled the car into the drive of a house that looked like any other house in the street. It was dark outside, but Clint could see well enough in the light from the streetlamps dotted around. He tugged his boots back on and bundled up the towels and the blanket, folding them as neatly as he can, and collects all his equipment. By the time he turned around, Coulson had opened the front door and was waiting for Clint to follow him inside.

Clint did so, arms wrapped around the piles of things he carrying; partially because it's quite a pile and he doesn't want to drop anything, and partially because it's cold outside of the heated car. He was already shivering by the time Coulson closed the door behind him and flipped on the hall light.

Coulson showed Clint to the guest room, which turned out to be plain and neat, a double bed, small chest of draws and a bedside table. There was a desk and a chair under the window, and Clint was sure Coulson would expect him to sit there and write a mission report at some point. Also, to Clint's surprise, was the bag he usually kept at base, which has a change of clothes stashed in it for emergencies.

"Bathroom's down the hall," Coulson explained, gesturing, "I'll make something to eat. You hungry?"

Clint nodded, "I've been existing on protein bars. Real food sounds amazing." He put his things down, and Coulson snagged the blanket and towels on his way out. Clint had a moment to check over his gear, even though he knew it was all in order.

He loosened the straps of his climbing harness, which he left on after leaving the tree, and stepped out of it, checking over the straps and buckles. There were a few pine needles caught in the left leg-strap's buckle, and he pulled them out with an expression of distaste. The rest of the harness was clear however, and he laid it out neatly, untying and then twisting the rope that had been attached to it into a neat coil to store with the rest of his equipment.

His bow was next, he checked over every inch of it with both his eyes and his hands, looking for anything that could be wrong. But it too was fine, and all the arrows were still in his quiver where he'd left them. He added them all to the pile, along with his shooting gloves.

Satisfied, Clint grabbed his bag and headed off in the direction Coulson had indicated the bathroom was in. He found it easily enough, and dropped his bag on the floor before closing the door behind him.

Clint ran the shower and stripped out of his soaked clothes while the water heated up, leaving them wet things in a pile on the tiled floor. The water when he stepped under it was hot, almost too hot, and he let out a low groan, dropping his head and letting the water hit his shoulders, easing out some of the tension sitting the tree in the rain had left him with.

Clint sighed softly and for a moment, he could let himself relax a little bit. His sleep had refreshed him, but he was still on edge, and would remain so until he left Coulson's house. It wasn't something that Coulson was doing to set Clint like that, it was Clint himself. Clint who was so infatuated with his handler that he was petrified about how he acted around him in case he let it slip. Clint who was so in love that he acted up with every other handler so he'd get put with Coulson. Clint who was so fucking angry at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s fraternisation policy that he was tearing himself up about the whole stupid thing convincing himself that doing nothing was the best idea, even though he knew it wasn't.

Clint let out a frustrated groan and let his clenched fist thud against the tiled wall of the shower. He immediately regrated it, because there was no way in hell that Coulson didn't hear that. Clint cursed himself as he turned off the water and grabbed one of the towels that had been stacked and folded on the counter next to the sink.

He dried off quickly, before he could start shivering again, and started to dress. His spare clothes weren't anything fancy, because that was just what they were, spare. Sweatpants, a slightly battered T-Shirt, and a hoodie. The hoodie was purple, of course, it a bit too big for him.

Clint puled on his socks, and shoved his dirty clothes back into his bag, making sure he got everything in. It would be just like him to leave something at Coulson's place and have to come back to get it. Once he'd collected up everything, Clint headed back into Coulson's guest room to leave his things.

As soon as he entered the hall he could smell something delicious. Clint hadn't exactly figured Coulson for the kind of guy to cook often, but when he entered the kitchen it was to see Coulson - who had changed out of his suit into slightly faded jeans and a plain black sweater – moving between the stove where he was stirring something, and the countertop where he was cutting vegetables and assembling a salad.

"Need a hand?" Clint offered, although he was a terrible cook – Natasha had told him this on many occasions.

"It's fine." Coulson replied, "But thanks anyway."

Clint dropped into a seat at the table to watched Coulson cook. The man clearly knew his way around a kitchen, handling coking with the same easy skill that he seemed to handle everything else that faced him. A few minutes later, Coulson placed a plate of spaghetti and sauce in front of Clint, and Clint had to admit that it smelled good.

Clint ate the spaghetti a little faster than was probably polite, but Coulson didn't seem to mind, entirely used to the fact the Clint often had a big appetite, especially after being in a tree for fourteen hours.

"Do I have to?" Clint mock-whined when Coulson pushed the salad bowl in his direction.

"My house, my rules." Coulson shot back easily, "Besides, it's good for you."

Clint wrinkled his nose and served himself some salad, picking out the red pepper and leaving it in a neat pile at the side of his plate. If Coulson had an opinion on this, he kept it to himself, something that Clint was grateful for. There weren't many things he didn't like – a side effect of growing up hungry – but red pepper was possibly the worst.

After dinner, Clint insisted on doing the dishes, because hey, Coulson had cooked, and he was also letting Clint stay in his spare room,

"I wasn't about to leave you there."

"I do have my own house you know."

Once the dishes were done, Clint excused himself to bed. He was tired from a long tense day and having eaten a proper hot meal was making him feel sleepy and content, and he knew if he stayed up much longer he might do something – some tiny little thing, not enough to be noticed by a normal person, but neither of them could be counted as normal - that would make his feelings obvious to Coulson.

Coulson simply nodded. "Goodnight." He said, looking up from the screen of is laptop where is undoubtedly typing up some report about some mission that had probably involved Clint doing something risky or stupid. Clint felt guilty for a moment, but shoved it away.

"Night," he replied, heading down the hall to bed. He needed at least eight hours of good uninterrupted sleep if he was going to face tomorrow morning.

Of course, that was too much to ask.


	3. The Terrors Beneath Your Pillow

The bed was surprisingly comfortable, and Clint found that he wasn't as cold as he had been before, so he took off his hoodie, leaving it with the rest of his stuff, and crawled between the sheets. It didn't take long until he was fast asleep and dreaming.

oOoOoOo

_The Bow felt like the most natural thing to have in his hand, but at the same time it felt wrong, like the most alien thing he had ever touched. His mind was buzzing with a faint hum that he couldn't seem to control, and he was afraid. Suddenly, he knew what he was meant to do. He had a target, and he had to make a shot. Just another job. _

_Then he saw his target. A small, untidy man with unruly brown hair, wearing a labcoat and glasses. But this time, then man turned to face him, and Clint knew that face. He knew the face and he knew the man, but his hands nocked the arrow to the bow, and drew it back, even as his mind was screaming at Bruce to get away. He loosed the arrow and it flew towards its mark. Clint was a highly trained assassin, he didn't miss, and the arrow found its mark perfectly. Bruce fell, and Clint was left to scream in the confines of his mind. _

oOoOoOo

Agent Phil Coulson was a light sleeper, so it was no surprise when he was woken by a shout of fear from down the hall. He clicked on his light, already completely awake and alert, and left his room, walking quietly down the corridor towards the room where Clint was sleeping.

As he approached the spare room, the shouting got a little louder, and he could hear that it was mixed with muttering and swearing. But the overtone of everything was fear. Coulson could tell instantly that this dream was not a good one, wasn't a healthy one, and he hadn't even opened the door. He had to wake Clint quickly.

When he opened the door to the bedroom, he had to take a second to adjust to the darkness. The curtains were drawn and the only light came from the numbers on the clock radio on the bedside table. Clint was still in the grip of the nightmare, thrashing around on the bed, still fighting some imaginary terrors.

"Like hell." Clint muttered, "Let me go you bastard!" he let out another shout, but this one sounded like pain.

Coulson flicked on the main light. "Agent Barton," he said, using the commanding tone of voice he only called upon when they were in the field and things went particularly bad, "Agent Barton, wake up."

Clint woke with a start, at the light or the words Coulson didn't know, but before he could ponder on it, Clint had a knife in his hand and had thrown it, deadly accurate, towards Coulson's head.

Coulson ducked the knife – he had half been expecting it – and raised an eyebrow when it lodged in the doorframe, quivering in the wood. He removed the knife carefully and set it down on the desk before crossing the room to Clint's bed.

"Agent Barton?" He asked. Clint didn't move, watching Coulson with wary eyes, "Clint?" Coulson tried.

Clint blinked, his vision seeming to clear. He also seemed to realise the situation. "Fuck." He muttered, looking at the clock, which told him it was somewhere between two and two-thirty am, "Sorry Sir. Didn't mean to wake you." He mumbled, already slumping back down a little way.

"It's fine." Coulson responded, "You're hardly the first to wake me like that."

"Natasha?" Clint asked, drawing his knees up against his chest, as if to create a barrier between him and Coulson.

"Natasha." Coulson replied, wincing a little bit at the memory. She hadn't just thrown a knife at his head. She'd hit him too, broken his nose. That had been an interesting night.

"Ouch." Clint said, a note of amusement in his voice.

"Which mission was it?" Coulson asked, knowing that likelihood would be that Clint was flashing back to a mission, probably a violent one or one where he'd been captured. There was enough nightmare fuel there to never sleep again, honestly.

But Clint was shaking his head, "Not a mission." He muttered, hunching himself up tighter, "Loki."

Coulson knew. Right away, he knew what Clint meant. He'd described it to him once, late one night on a mission, where there was nothing better to than talk, and in time, Clint had made his way around to that particular topic, and, his voice and hands shaking slightly, he'd told him the story of what it was like to have someone else inside your head.

"Oh." He said softly, and he wasn't going to apologise, because Clint wouldn't let him. Clint was shivering, he noticed, his arms bare in the room that wasn't quite so warm anymore. Coulson spied Clint's hoodie on the desk. He quickly picked it up and handed it to Clint, who pulled it on gratefully, hunching inside it and still shivering.

"Cold?" he asked, and Clint nodded, even though he was half-covered in blanket and wearing the hoodie, he still couldn't stop shivering. Coulson brought him the spare blanket from the shelf of the closet, spreading it over him. Clint grabbed the corner and pulled it up to his chest, curling up on his side and shivering pitifully.

"Any better?" Coulson asked after a few minutes, although he was pretty sure he knew what the answer was.

"No." Clint said softly, trying to curl up tighter into a ball.

"Move over." Coulson said quietly, and Clint's eyes, which had been drifting closed, flashed open again in surprise. Regarding Coulson with slight suspicion, He wriggled across the double bed, leaving space for Coulson to join him.

Coulson went back to turn off the light, and then felt his way back towards the bed, sliding in next to Clint, lying close enough to touch him, but not close enough that Clint would feel trapped. Gradually, he felt Clint's shivering subside a little, and his breathing even out as he fell asleep.


	4. The Morning After the Night Before

Clint woke with his head resting on something that was warm, and that moved slightly, in a pattern that matched breathing. There was something draped over him, feeling warm and comforting, not like he was trapped at all. He took a moment to open his eyes, and he was greeted with the piercing gaze of Phil Coulson, who was peering down at him curiously.

Clint looked back at him, and shrugged, with a 'don't look at me' kind of expression on his face. He wasn't going to do it, but if anyone had asked him, he would have described what they were doing as cuddling. And that was not a thing one normally did with their handler. Not that Clint was complaining, but he was going to be beating himself up about not making a move now for weeks. Because as much as he wanted to, he wasn't going to take advantage.

The looked at each other for some time, and Coulson made no move to let Clint go. Eventually, Coulson sighed.

"I've made a mess of this." He said simply.

"Depends what you define as 'made a mess of'." Clint replied with a cheeky grin.

"Don't do that." Coulson said softly, a flash of pain behind his smile, "I know it's not really you."

Clint knew what he meant. The mask that he pulled down, cheap humour and cockiness, to hide how he was really feeling. It was an unconscious habit from his past. He quietened, and waited, knowing that Coulson would continue. When he didn't Clint prompted him.

"Made a mess of what?" Neither of the missed the brief silence when Clint would normally have said 'Sir'. Their dynamic had shifted, ever to slightly.

"This." Coulson gestured with his free hand, the one that wasn't wrapped around Clint, "Us." He added in a quieter tone of voice.

"Us?" Clint asked, trying not to let himself hope. Coulson probably just meant that their working relationship had been compromised, or something similar, "You mean us together? Like. Together together?"

Coulson laughed lightly, "Now that we've reaffirmed you're a fifth-grader," he teased, then he sobered, "Yes."

Clint stopped for a moment, his normally active mind came to a screeching halt, because once again, this wasn't what one normally did with their handler. Then, he mentally shrugged. If Coulson was initiating this, he wasn't going to back down.

"Nah," He replied, smiling, "No mess." He grinning, a bright, genuine smile instead of his usual cocky smirk, and Coulson smiled back down at him, the hand that had been resting around him came up to rest lightly on the back of his head, fingers carding gently through his short hair. Clint remained still for a moment, then threw caution and possibly good sense to the winds, surging up the bed to kiss Coulson hard on the mouth.

Coulson made a surprised noise, and for a moment, Clint thought he might have fucked up, might have made the wrong call, but then Coulson had wrapped his arms around him, pulled him in tight and kissed him back.

Coulson kissed the same way he did anything else; intent focused and very, very thoroughly. Clint was left gasping for breath by the time they parted, and Coulson, damn him, had the audacity to smirk about it.

"Breakfast?" he asked.

Clint made a slightly unwilling sound, "Can't I just stay here and kiss you?" he pleaded, "I mean, I only just found out that I could have been doing this for ages before now, I think we have some catching up to do."

Coulson snorted a laugh, and was about to reply when the phone rang. "Hold that thought." He told Clint, reaching across to the bedside table to grab the handset.

As soon as he answered, Clint saw him sit up a little straighter in bed, almost as if he were snapping to attention. Fury then. Clint wanted to make as exasperated noise, because in his book, Fury was synonymous with two things: trouble, and mission.

"Yes Sir," Coulson was saying into the phone, "Uh, no sir. He's right here."

Clint took this as his cue to start being a pain, as was his habit.

"Phil." He whined, drawing the name out, "Come back to bed." Of course, Coulson was in bed next to him, but Fury wasn't to know that. Clint chuckled when the line went silent, and then exploded with laughter. He made a grab for the phone, and Coulson merely sighed and put it on speaker.

When Fury had finally calmed down enough to speak, he congratulated Clint and Coulson on 'finally getting you shit together'. Coulson rolled his eyes at that, and Clint grinned like a fool when Fury told them to take the day off.

"What was that first bit about?" Clint asked after Coulson had finished the call.

"Director Fury wanted to know where his archer was." Coulson replied, "I wasn't exactly forthright about what I was going to do."

Clint nodded, "So you basically snuck out to rescue me?" he asked, and Coulson nodded. Clint felt something warm unfurl inside his chest. "One other thing," he added, "I'm nobody's archer but yours."

Coulson smiled, and pulled him back in for another quick kiss. "Now how about breakfast?" he offered again.

"Ooh, pancakes?" Clint asked, because he knew Coulson would say that pancakes were unhealthy, and he loved to tease the other man.

"Okay." Coulson replied, smiling his own smile at how surprised Clint looked to hear this. Clint kissed him again, just because he could, and followed him in the direction of the kitchen.


	5. Back On Duty

Coulson, as it turned out, made amazing pancakes. Clint took one bite and his eyes went wide.

"Oh my god!" he mumbled around his mouthful, "These are fucking amazing!"

Phil, to his credit, did blush a little, "Thanks." He replied. Then, he rolled his eyes, because Clint had removed his phone from his pocket and was taking a picture of said pancakes.

"Really?" Phil asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Hey!" Clint replied indignantly, "Natasha deserves to know about this!" He captioned the snap 'Look what I've got' and sent it to her, grinning. He got a response a few moments later showing a piece of toast and a cup of coffee. Neither looked appetizing. 'Screw you'. The comment read. Clint snorted unattractively, and passed the phone to Phil, who smiled, and passed Clint a cup of coffee.

They ate breakfast in companionable silence, Clint's sock covered foot nudging against Phil's shin, and Phil glaring at him when he tried to steal some of his pancakes.

After breakfast, Phil cleaned up while Clint packed up his stuff and got ready to head back to base for a proper debrief. The drive was short, since Coulson lived pretty close to base, not uncommon for senior SHIELD personnel.

Natasha met them on the way up from the multi-level parking garage. She appeared between them from a side hall and nudged Clint in the ankle with her foot. He shoved her with his shoulder, and she intentionally collided with Coulson, who shrugged her off with an eye roll.

"You two are idiots." She told them, smiling fondly.

"Hey!" Clint responded, giving her a wounded look, "I'm smart!" He sounded offended.

"Mmm-huh." She replied, slinging an arm around his shoulders and squeezing him, "Congratulations." She whispered in his ear. She stepped back.

"Fury wants to see both of you in half an hour." She told them, before vanishing into a stairwell.

Clint and Coulson exchanged a look. What did Fury want?

Clint hunched his shoulders a bit, "I'm gonna go shoot."

Coulson nodded, understanding what Clint was doing. It was a coping mechanism that Coulson had noticed in Clint. Whenever he was stressed, especially about the security of his position at SHIELD, Clint hit the range. Sometimes, Coulson would find him there after hours, still slamming arrow after arrow into the target, the tension making his back and shoulders tighter than handling the bow ever would.

"Yeah, okay." Coulson nodded. He glanced around the halls, and then kissed Clint quickly on the lips before departing in the direction of his office. Clint smiled and slung his bow case over his shoulder.

There was no-one else on the range this time of day, most agents either choosing to practice early in the morning before too many people were awake, or later in the afternoon. Setting up a target, Clint found himself feeling illogically happy about well, everything. It was an unusual feeling for him, being free of the constant worry that he'd slip up in front of Coulson. Because now it didn't matter.

Clint nocked the first arrow to the string, aimed and fired. The arrow his the exact center of the target. In quick succession, Clint fired six more arrows, forming a neat circle around the first one.

He was onto the final circle, just about the first the final arrow when something his him lightly on the back of the head.

"Fuck off Nat." He said without turning, before firing the last arrow into the target. He placed his bow down on the bench in front of him and turned to see her sitting on a weapons cabinet, legs crossed underneath her, smiling.

"So," she said, uncoiling and following him downrange to collect the ridiculous amount of arrows stuck into the target, "How was it?"

"How was what?" Clint replied, being obtuse. He began pulling the arrows out of the target, bundling them neatly together.

"Sex." Natasha sad bluntly, smacking him upside the head with the shaft of an arrow, something he wouldn't have tolerated from anyone else, "With Coulson. Idiot."

"Dunno." Clint replied, shrugging, "Didn't have it."

"What?" Natasha stopped whacking him with the arrow, and he took the time to snatch it back off her, slightly irritated. Nat might have been his best friend, and the sister he didn't have, but she could be annoying as hell sometimes.

"You heard me." He snapped.

"Why not though?" Natasha prodded, simply grabbing another arrow from the target and jabbing him accusatorily, "I mean, you're both into each other, far as I know you both like sex…So why not?"

Clint shrugged again.

Natasha rolled her eyes, "Well, what did you do?"

"We slept together." Clint offered, "Like, actually slept. I think I snored. Do I snore?"

"Yes." She passed him a few more arrows, "Loudly."

"Shut up."

"I assumed you kissed."

"Yes."

"Good."  
"Perv."

"You love me." She teased, "Hurry up; you'll be late to meet with Fury."

"What does he want?" Clint asked, beginning to pack up his bow.

"No clue, but I bet it's your fault." She retorted, "Come on."

Clint followed her out of the range, wondering if he was ever going to lose the feeling that he was walking just a few inches off the ground.


	6. Disagreements

Director Fury gave the two of them a hard look when they entered the briefing room. Clint felt, as he always did when being chastised by Fury, like a kid called into the principal's office being asked to explain if he knew why he was there. Natasha just slid into a seat and opened the briefing packet in from of her. She skimmed it, then froze. She closed the packet very slowly and looked up at Fury, murder in her eyes.

"No." She stated flatly, folding her arms.

Fury raised an eyebrow at her, but Natasha held her ground. "I'm not doing it." She said flatly, "You know they still have a bounty on me."

"This mission is not optional Agent Romanov." Fury told her. Clint slid lower in his seat, opening his briefing packet and skimming over the mission parameters. He glared at Fury too.

"Why?" he asked simply, folding his arms, "All due respect sir, but this is fucking stupid." Clint told Fury, "Nat's not the only one with a bounty on her head from these guys, and now you want the two of us to go waltzing into their nest? No way."

"Not optional." Fury snapped, glaring. "Look," he told them, "This mission needs the best. You two are the best."

"Don't try that shit, Sir." Clint muttered.

Natasha sighed, "I wanna go on record as opposing this." She huffed, "And I want leave when I get home. At least a week of leave." She glared at Fury, "Yes?"

"Fine." Fury sighed, throwing up his hands in defeat, "Any other questions?" He gave Clint a look that said 'shut the hell up'. Clint sighed and shrugged. He wasn't exactly pleased about wading into the depths of a terrorist organization that had bounties on him and Natasha, but they weren't exactly being given a choice here.

Clint glanced across at Coulson, who had remained silent throughout the entire meeting. Coulson glanced up the moment that he felt Clint's gaze on him, and Clint had to remind himself that now, he didn't have to look away because Coulson had caught him looking. He didn't have to live in fear anymore. Coulson shot Clint his trademark 'behave yourself, Agent Barton' look, and Clint dropped his eyes back to the briefing packet in front of him. He continued to read until he got down to the section detailing exactly who would be coming on the mission with him and Natasha.

"Sir, I've changed my mind." He announce, pointing at the name on the page, "I'm not doing it."

Fury gave him a cold look. Clint waved the page at him.

"I am _not _working with Agent Bartlett Sir." He stated decisively, "I don't trust him. He doesn't listen and he doesn't trust the judgment of the assets he supervises. It's too risky."

"No," Fury nodded, "You're not working with Agent Bartlett." He looked towards Coulson, "There has been a last-minute personnel change for this mission," Fury continued, "Agent Coulson will be accompanying the two of you to Russia. You leave through civilian channels at 2030 hours tonight." Fury gave them all a long look, "Good luck, Agents." Then, he left the room.

Clint leaned back in his seat and put his feet on the table. Natasha rolled her eyes at him, and muttered something at him in Russian.

"Hey!" Clint called after her as she swept out of the room, "I'm not a lovesick puppy!"

"That's not what I called you!" She shot back over her shoulder.

Clint rolled his eyes, "Whatever." He muttered.

Coulson stood and walked around the table to where Clint was seated. He leant against the table and gave Clint a serious look.

"Agent Barton," he said.

Clint looked up at Coulson, noting the serious tone in the other man's voice. That was Coulson's Very Serious Voice, the one reserved for protocol breaches and making junior agents understand that they'd screwed up in a big way. And it meant that Clint was in trouble. Or, at the very least, would be in trouble if he didn't listen up and pay attention.

"Yes, Sir?" Clint asked, tacking the Sir on because they were at work, and he knew that he should stay in Coulson's good books for now, at least until he knew how much the change in their relationship would let him get away with.

"I want you to understand something," Coulson informed him, perhaps a little stiffly, "While we are at work, and this includes on missions where we may be observed, we have to-"

"Act like nothing's changed, I know." Clint huffed, sliding a little further down into his seat.

"As much as I dislike it, yes." Coulson nodded, "There are rules for this sort of thing."

"Fucking fraternization policy." Clint grumbled, "Stupid thing."

Coulson raised an eyebrow, "I think 'fucking' is what the fraternization policy is trying to prevent." He said coolly, "I'll see you this evening Agent Barton, I have paperwork to prepare."

Clint was left sitting in the empty briefing room, slightly shocked. Had Coulson just made a joke?


End file.
